For four years I had been attending Sunday services, Bible school, choir rehearsals, revivals, and anniversaries in the nation's poorest urban neighborhoods. I attended services in basements and on the second floor of former factories, places I was able to find only by the noise of rattles and the preaching and the energetic singing that came from inside. I drove nights through desolate streets looking for houses of worship with their lights on. I walked into happy celebrations and graduations. I felt close to strangers as they testified, and observed poor people as they were being fleeced out of their money.I search for places where the homeless, the drub addicted, and those recently released from prison go for food, shelter, and clothing, and get those things plus religion. Newcomers are given a grim view of humanity. Hungry and sleepy visitors to the Emmanuel Baptist Rescue Mission in Los Angeles were told: "It is in the heart of men to do evil," and are asked to belt out such hymns as "Send the Light," and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." A few sheets of toilet paper are handed out to those who need to use the bathroom. After the service people are asked to go, ladies first, gentlemen and with crutches second, and then according to rows to the dining room for breakfast.
I was often asked to explain my presence and said that I was writing a book on churches. Once asked to speak to the congregation during Sunday services at Saints of God House of Prayer in the Bronx I commented that in 2004, fewer churches were offering Thanksgiving dinner.
